Your eyes my sight
by JustFemke
Summary: The Reichenbach fall. Sherlock and Moriarty are on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, but what if it goes a little bit different then expected? One-shot written for youreyesmysight on Tumblr and corrected by theyoungbeans. I am not responsible for any reichen-feels.


**Author's Note:** This one-shot is made for a lovely girl on Tumblr who won my 'contest' and the prize was a FanFiction based on your Tumblr URL.  
She had chosen a drama fic with main characters Sherlock and Moriarty, but I just couldn't resist placing John in it. This is my story about the Reichenbach Fall.  
(If you wondered her Tumblr URL is youreyesmysight ).

I found a site with the whole script of 'The Reichenbach fall', it is from Ariane DeVere on livejournal. (If you want the link, just ask me and I'll send you it!)

**Beta reader:** This is corrected by the wonderful 'theyoungbeans' (on Tumblr). Thank her for being so kind to correct it!

**UPDATE: My usual Beta reader Anna corrected it for a second time, so here you go. It's a bit longer now... enjoy!**

* * *

**Your eyes, my sight  
****  
**John, with all his patience, had had enough.

"God! You're a... a machine!" His eyes were alit in rage and he screamed at his friend in exasperation. "Do you _actually_ want to be isolated? Cut off, from other people?!"

His calloused hands raked down his tired face. "You truly think having _friends_ is worse than being alone?!" Dr Watson was at a loss to understand.

Sherlock didn't even look at him. "Alone is what I have," he said, simply. "Alone protects me."

John narrowed his eyes, angrily snatched up his coat and yanked at the door handle furiously.

"No," he snapped back, "_Friends _protect people." The statement hung in the air as he banged the door of the flat closed behind him.

Sherlock straightened up out of his chair as John heavily jogged down the stairs and slammed the front door shut. Out of the front window, he watched John leave briskly, and sighed heavily.

_I haven't got much time_, he thought. _Keep it together and think.  
_  
Breaking his reverie, the chime of his mobile filled the room and he picked it up, glancing at the screen half-expecting it to be John, apologising already.

**I'm waiting... -JM**

His green-blue eyes widened and he whirled around, buttoning up his dark blue blazer and grabbing his long, dark coat as he strode out the door.

...

Sherlock flung open the old, heavy door on the roof of St. Bart's, causing a squeak to erupt from its hinges.

_There he is._

The man who has already escaped Sherlock twice.

_Well... can't let that happen a third time._

James 'Jim' Moriarty.

_Consulting criminal.  
_  
Clad in a black, favoured Westwood suit, the demon sat on the edge of the roof; his dark, slicked back hair tangling itself in the wind, and casting shadows against the clouded, white sunshine. It made his pointed serpentine face seem even paler.

A charming smile curved on his face.

The sort of charming smile that makes him seem as though he's the nicest man one would ever meet. A man that would strike you in the jugular, soak his poison into your body, and watch you die with the same smirk plastered on his lips.

_Poor Molly Hooper never saw this coming._

He had a phone lying flat in his hand, belting out music. The infectious chorus of a seventies pop band sang about Stayin' Alive, Stayin' Alive, Ah ah ah ah. It did nothing more than shroud a sourly ironic mood around them.

"Well, here we are at last."

Moriarty's calculating drawl calls out to Sherlock, but he keeps his gaze away from the detective's. Instead, they're fixated on the ground, eyebrows furrowed.

"You... and me, Sherlock," Moriarty mused in a lilting, soft Irish tongue. "And our problem," he added, "our final problem."

Sherlock steps slowly towards Moriarty, his curls blowing in the high gusty breeze.

"Staying alive!" Moriarty shouts into the wind, his face twisted grotesquely in disgust. "It's so_ boring_, isn't it?"

He violently thumbed a button, turning off the racket, and swivelled his head around to face the consulting detective.

Sherlock's stiff posture and movements reflected a feeling he rarely felt; _nervousness_. It felt like nausea, cold sweat and dizziness rolled into one little nugget.

Moriarty lowered his arm, and with it instead gestured slowly, dramatically.

"It's just... _staying_." His head fell to his heads in what appeared to be frustration. "All my life... I've been searching for _distractions_." Moriarty positively grinned. "And you were the best distraction and now I don't even have _you_. Because I've _beaten_ you."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he looked at his adversary, surprised.

_No one ever beats me..._

_Do they?_

Moriarty rambled on. "In the end, it was easy. _It was easy_. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out _you're _ordinary just like all of them." He shook his head in a melodramatic fashion, and it fell to his heads once again.

Sherlock shifted, confused, as the dark figure rubbed his face, and his eyes had changed. Before, they were cold and calculating, like a spider eyeing up the poor insect to have fallen into his intricate web.

Now, they were bright with life- sparkling in his madness, and they darted about with energy. Sherlock didn't know which of the two personas was more frightening- the Moriarty that was ice cold, or the Moriarty that crackled with fire.

"Oh well..." the demon sang. He acted like a small child who had stolen another's favourite toy.

Sherlock's eyes trained on Moriarty, following him like a dog follows his master. Not through any lack of will on his part- he just couldn't tear them away. Moriarty stood and prowled towards Sherlock.

"Did you almost start to wonder if I was real?" he edged closer. "Did I nearly _get'cha_?" He asks, an amused smirk playing on his lips.

Sherlock felt ill_._ _Everything's hurting_. His neck, head, legs, arms... this is all too much. His body began to shake with cold and fatigue, and stress. Looking at his quivering hands, he couldn't help but feel anguish that his body was finally betraying him. _It can't take so much pressure anymore.  
_  
He sat heavily down on the wall of the roof and ran through everything that has happened in the last few days.

Then it hits him; shocked that it didn't occur to him beforehand.

"**Richard Brook**." he says, exhausted.

"Nobody seems to get the joke." Moriarty stares at the grey-blue London sky. "But you do."

Sherlock straightened. "Of course."

"'Atta-boy..." Moriarty almost sings those two words as he lazily paced in front of his adversary's swaying form. He doesn't seem to care that Sherlock is sitting, slouched in defeat, instead of standing in challenge.

"**Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach.** The case that made my name." Sherlock's hand goes towards his head, and he hopes that once he laid his cool hand on it, it might lessen the pain. When it doesn't, he rests his hands on his leg, and tried something else.

"Just tryin' to have some fun," Moriarty drawled in a silly, sing-song accent.

The pacing criminal noticed Sherlock tapping his thigh. "Good... you got that, _too_."

Sherlock huffed. "Beats like digits. Every beat is a one, every rest is a zero. **Binary code."** He stopped, realising something else. He could almost hear the thunks of pieces clicking into place. "_That's_ why all those assassins tried to _save my life._ It was hidden on me... hidden inside my head."

Moriarty chuckled at Sherlock's revelation. "A few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system." Looking down, he continued. "Told all my clients 'last one to Sherlock is a sissy.'"

Sherlock smiled slightly. The man was completely insane.

_There's a way out._"I could use it... I could use it to open _everything_. I could _kill_ Richard Brook and _bring back _Jim Moriarty." Sherlock said, trying to regain some power in the conversation. However, he was struggling to concentrate.

Moriarty smiled, but soon shook his head in despair. "No, no, no," Moriarty murmured, growing agitated and aggravated. "This is too easy, this is too _easy_!" He gave a disbelieving scoff. "There _is_ no key_ DOOFUS_!" He screams the last word into Sherlock's face, his eyes wide and deranged.

But the wild man regressed and his head snaked from side to side, hypnotising his enemy.

"Those digits are meaningless. They're _utterly _meaningless."

Sherlock tried and failed to hide the confusion on his face as Moriarty explained.

"You don't _really_ think a couple of lines of _computer code_ are gonna crash the world around us? I'm disappointed." He isn't even trying to hide the condescending, mocking tone in his voice anymore. "I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."

Sherlock's brain hurts. "But the rhythm ..." He reached out, as if he could clutch the answer with his bare hands.

"Partita No. 1, thank you Johann Sebastian Bach!" he cried out at the sky, a laugh bubbling in his voice.

_Moriarty's making fun out of this._

Since when was

I_ making faults?__  
_  
"But, then, how did-"

"Then how did I break into the bank, the Tower, the prison?!" Moriarty sped on, his eyes alight. He spread his arms wide and looked up at the sky. "Daylight robbery!"

He looked at Sherlock with superiority. "All it takes is some willing participants.

"I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever."

Sherlock froze.

A genuine smile played on Moriarty's lips once again. "_Now, _shall we finish the game? One final act?"

He walked over to the figure sitting on the edge, and peered over. " Glad you chose a tall building– nice way to do it."

"'Do it?' Do– do what?" Sherlock asked, bewildered.

Then he realised what it is Moriarty means.

_Oh._

"Yes, of course... My suicide."

"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.'" Moriarty drawled as Sherlock looked over the rooftop and saw the street that must be tens or even hundreds of meters below them.

Moriarty crept closer until he was at Sherlock's shoulder. "I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales."

Moriarty ominously turns his head to Sherlock."And pretty Grimm ones too."

Sherlock searched desperately for a way out of this. "I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."

"Oh, just kill yourself," Moriarty moaned, "It's a lot less effort. And in _your_ case... I would say a lot less pain."

Sherlock's brow rose.

What did he mean…?

_  
…Oh._

"Go on. For me."

Sherlock suddenly found the fire to stand, and whirled round to face the shorter man.

"Pleeeeeease-" Moriarty squealed in a high-pitched voice.

As if on impulse, Sherlock grabbed him by the collar of his coat with both hands and spun him around so that Moriarty's back was to the drop.

Moriarty regarded at him with interest as Sherlock's breaths became shallower and shorter.

This took a lot of effort but Sherlock didn't like to be fooled around with.

_"You're insane!"_ Sherlock whispered at the criminal.

Moriarty seems genuinely taken back. "You're just getting that now?" he scoffed. "Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."

Sherlock blanched.

"Your friends will _die_ if you don't."

That unfamiliar sense, that fear fills up Sherlock's body once again, and he can think of only one person.

"**John**," he whispers.

"Not just John. Moriarty breathes quietly, sardonically. "_Everyone_."

"**Mrs Hudson**."

"_Everyone_." Moriarty said with a delighted smile.

"**Lestrade**." The investigator rounds out Sherlock's pathetically short list of so-called 'friends'.

He could picture them all now. Lestrade... in his office. A gunman stationed within his team- a mole, a traitor. Mrs Hudson... she was redecorating. A painter or a handyman. _John..._ God only knew.

"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now." Moriarty looked Sherlock dead in the eyes. "Unless my people see you jump."

Sherlock gazed past him, breathing heavily and appeared to be lost in horror. Jim shook himself free of the sociopath's grasp and smiles triumphantly. He straightened, still in Sherlock's space, and murmured in his ear.

"You can have me _arrested_, you can _torture _me; you can do _anything you like_ with me, but _nothing'_s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die... unless...?"

"Unless I kill myself. Complete your story."

Moriarty nodded. "You've got to admit that's sexier." He sounded like Miss Adler.

"And I die in disgrace." Sherlock's head began to ache again.

"Of course. That's the point of this." Moriarty said in an incredulous tone. "Go on." Sherlock slowly stepped past him and up onto the ledge.

"Would you give me... one moment, please, one moment of privacy?" Sherlock's voice was tired and he spoke the sentence slowly, with fatigue.

"Of course." Moriarty averted his eyes.

Memories go through Sherlock's head.

_His first meeting with John._

The lies he had told him.

The first time he saw Moriarty.

The time Molly said she didn't count.

He thinks of Lestrade, of Donovan and Anderson.

Even Mycroft.

And how can he forget Mrs. Hudson, who was like a mother to him?

All the people to whom he had told lies because he didn't know how to say what was on his mind.

He couldn't stop himself from letting a tear fall.

Moriarty moved closer. "I see." He said, nodding his head again. "You haven't told anybody, have you? I thought Mr Ice Man would have spilled it by now. But he didn't, do he? He cares too much about you."

More tears were streaming down the defeated detective's face and his sight got even more blurry.

"How long ago is it now, since you found out? Two, _three _years? You should have known that all those years of smoking would have paid off."

Sherlock tried to look Moriarty in the eyes, but couldn't bring himself to.

"So come on. Jump. The **brain tumour** wouldn't get better even if you stayed alive."

Sherlock could almost feel his heart snap.

"Oh... but you don't want to give up yet, do you? It's because of that little _doctor_ of yours, right?

Moriarty chuckled darkly. "I saw it from the moment I walked into the lab. How you looked at him. I can see it Sherlock! _Your eyes are my sight_, we are both highly-functioning.

"You tried to not let anybody notice, but I must say that you failed.**Sherlock Holmes**_, the great detective, _**has feelings**!" he shouted.

Sherlock's breathing got heavy and his vision began to swirl.

"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out." Moriarty lowered his gaze to Sherlock's hand. Glancing back to the detective's face, he had the face of thunder.

"_Well, good luck with that."_

Moriarty opened his mouth wide and pulls a pistol out and raised it into the orifice, pointing towards the inside of his head. As Sherlock instinctively surged back out of the way, crying out in alarm, his adversary pulled the trigger, dropping to the roof instantly like a puppet with cut strings.

Sherlock stared in horror as blood began to trickle across the roof underneath the other man's head.

Sherlock looked around, clutching his face in shock and panic.

Clever. This man was so clever.

He can't call off the shooters.

I have to-

He looked back over the rooftop and saw John stepping out of a cab.

_So he finally got it?_

Sherlock took out his phone and selected the first speed dial. The answering phone began to ring below him as John raises his phone to his ear as he trotted towards the hospital.

"Hello?" John asked suspiciously.

Sherlock answered simply, holding back his tears. "John."

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" John said whilst he walked towards the entrance of St. Bart's Hospital.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came. Now."

"No, I'm coming in." John stated firmly, not knowing what was going on.

"Just, do as I _ask_," Cold shivers ran down his spine. "_Please_."

John sighed and jogged back to the place where he came from, head swinging back and forth trying to see Sherlock.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh... God..." John's mouth dropped and a concerned look spread across his face.

"I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock began to stutter over his own words, tears rolling down his cheeks yet again.

_He's vulnerable._

"What's going on, Sherlock?" John asked desperately, eyes still widened.

"An apology, John." His voice cracked. "It's... all true."

"Wh-what?" John raised his brow and his face paled.

"Everything they said about me." A sob broke out. "I'm a fake!"

He looked back at his enemy lying on the cold ground. "I invented Moriarty. I've told you all so many lies I can't even count them on both hands."

"Sherlock-" John started, but Sherlock didn't listen.

"The newspapers were right all along.

"I want you to tell _Lestrade_; I want you to tell _Mrs. Hudson_, and _Molly_..." Sherlock cried, tears streaming down his cold face,  
"in fact, tell _anyone who will listen to you_... that I created Moriarty... for my own purposes."

John shook his head. "Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... _the first time we met_, you knew all about my **sister**, right?" He was trying to win time, Sherlock could see it.

"Nobody could be that clever." He answered simply.

John glanced at the ground before looking up to his best friend on the rood, before speaking what he knew to be the truth. "You could."

For the first time that day Sherlock laughed and gazed down at his friend, a tear dripping from his chin.

He took a deep breath. "_I researched you_. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you._ It's a trick. **Just a magic trick**._"

John closed his eyes and shook his head repeatedly again.

"No. Alright, stop it now." Watson started walking determinedly towards the hospital.

"No!" shouted Sherlock, his hand stretched out as if he could forcibly halt John, "stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

John could see that his friend is struggling within his own mind. "All right," he backed off, hands up in surrender. "All right."

"_Keep your eyes fixed on me,_" Sherlock voice shook into the phone, _"please, will you do this for me?"  
_  
"Do what?"

"This phone call– it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they– leave a note?" His head hurt in every way possible. It was his time, he could feel it.

John shook his head, momentarily taking his phone from his ear as the disbelief of what he's beginning to understand hit him.

He raised it again.

"Leave a note when?"

"I'll miss you." Sherlock set his foot on the corner of the edge. "**Goodbye, John.**"

"No. Don't-" John put his hand in the air, trying to pretend that he could avoid Sherlock falling through placing his hand there. As if he could catch him.

Sherlock flung his phone to the ground.

Stepped up to the edge.

His arms spread, about to take flight.

The wind ruffled his hair, and he closed his eyes.

Took a deep breath.

Rose onto his toes-

_"NO! SHERLOCK!"_

* * *

_1 week later_

"**Brain tumour**," Lestrade says to John quietly. "He was **already dying**, without you noticing. Maybe this was better for him."

He places a hand on John shoulder but John pulls away.

"No. I would have noticed. Sherlock told me everything. Always." Tears stream down his face. His shoulders shake with effort.

"Sometimes it's better not to know something." Lestrade goes to leave John's room at 221B.

He turns back at the door, "We _all_ miss him, John."

Silence falls over the flat for some time before John can finally manage to speak again.

His voice shakes.

_"But... **I loved him**."  
_

* * *

**_Every step I take, every move I make _**  
**_Every single day, every time I pray _**  
**_Ill be missing you._**  
**_Thinking of the day, when you went away _**  
**_What a life to take, what a bond to break _**  
**_Ill be missing you._**

The Police - Every breath you take


End file.
